


A Green Growing Thing

by grecianviolet



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, and ends after Return of the King, because she was a great character who deserved better, begins before Desolation of Smaug, this is Tauriel's story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grecianviolet/pseuds/grecianviolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel believes that she and her King have hated each other since she first entered his halls. In some ways, she is right. In others, she could not be further from the truth. A story of the Captain and her King, told one little piece at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

Tauriel is thirty-two years old. Whippet-cut by brambles, smeared with dirt and muck, muddled by spider venom, and still dripping tears, she is brought into the King’s presence. This is their first meeting, but Tauriel is in no position to be honored by his great condescension in admitting one so young into his sight. She would give anything in the world—anything at all among all the wonders of the forest and all the tales of glories in the many kingdoms beyond—not to be kneeling before her King.

The King. She knows nothing else to call him; no one she knows has ever used his name.

A fresh burst of tears blinds her, and a stuttering sob stops her ears. Everyone she has ever known is dead. She knows this, though none of the Guard has told her so. Hiding in the hollow tree, her secret hideaway, surrounded by soft loam and skittering beetles, holding her breath until she felt her head and chest burst with the strain, she had survived.

She alone.

He is speaking to her, but she cannot hear him. She does not dare raise her eyes to his face, but even if she did, the tears would keep her from seeing anything other than a blur of flaxen hair and rust-red silk. The color reminds her of the dull amber of the maple trees surrounding her parents’ garden, as well as the color of her hair, the hair Mother brushed with fifty sweeping strokes each night.

The tint is the essence of fall, the quintessential shade of her favorite season. It becomes the King well.

But this day has destroyed everything she loves. Nothing remains of Tauriel’s life, of her brief, butchered childhood. So she hates the color, as she hates everything—no matter how insignificant—that brings to mind this day.

Tauriel is not brave enough to hate the King. She is too lowly, too insignificant for that.

But as the hours pass, his voice—even, measured, deep—and his questions wear away at her like water against a stone, she grows to dislike him. However many times she weeps, however much her escorts shift uncomfortably in their boots and suggest she be given time to rest, he persists. He must know, he says, how the spiders attacked. In what numbers. How the village militia responded. Why they were not successful.

Finally, the immediacy of her pain gives way to a curious cold numbness. Tauriel looks up at last, with clear eyes. And she sees her own dislike reflected back at her.

She does not understand it. In all the years that follow, Tauriel still does not come to understand it. But she knows it is true, she never doubts it. Though the King arrives at the decision to host her in his own palace, effectively adopting her as his ward though many families stand at the ready to take her, Tauriel sees the truth.

He dislikes her, as much as she does him.


	2. II

The days, months, and years that follow the dreadful day of the spider attack do as they are meant to.  They blur the memories of terror and fear, and mute the dreadful pain that used to make Tauriel writhe at the recollection of her parents.  Now, at thirty-six, it is only with effort that she recalls her mother’s calm eyes—the exact shade of moss growing in the shade of strong trees—or her father’s quick fingers winding through the glistening strings of his harp.

 

An elf’s memory is supposed to be a perfect record, but Tauriel is glad that in this regard she seems to differ from her comrades.  In the first few months after her new life began, she woke every night hoarse with screams, certain that the spiders had found her at last. 

 

No, Tauriel is not sorry that she cannot remember some things.  What makes her sorry is that she seems to have no control over what she _does_ recall.

 

She can recall, for example, every word the King—whose name she knows but is forbidden to use—has ever spoken to her.  But she prefers to think of other things.  Especially this morning.

 

There is dirt under her fingernails, sweat dripping from her hastily bound-up hair, and smudges of dirt mar the dark green fabric of her leggings and tunic.  She has been in the garden since break of day, happily absorbed in planting a row of trees that she herself has cross-bred in the hotbeds for over a year.  She believes they are strong enough now to withstand the sharp fall air, and blossom through the winter.  The fresh flowers—before only available in spring and summer—can be brewed into all sorts of remedies. 

 

The head gardener has given her the space for her experiment, with the head healer’s blessing.  They both warned her not to get her hopes too high.  Many a trial like hers had been attempted before, with no success.

 

But Tauriel is certain her trees will thrive.  Was it not her own father who had remarked on her skill with plants, and her mother who had insisted she be apprenticed to the village apothecary the moment she came of age? 

 

Tauriel smiles at this memory.  She is glad to think she will do her parents proud.

 

“Your studies appear to be proceeding apace.”

 

Startled—she still startles easily—Tauriel trips over the nearest tree and uproots it as she drops to her knees.  Some of the roots have snapped and she winces at the raw edges.  This one will have to go back to the hotbeds.

 

“I believe so, your Majesty,” she manages, “I wish never to disappoint you.”

 

“As you should, child,” he makes no move to descend into the garden.  His white silk robe would not mix well with the dark, chilly earth.  He stands like a pillar of starlight; though merely on the terrace above, he is entirely distant from her. 

 

“I have hopes for you.”


	3. III

“Think you that a feast is the moment to discuss the deaths of my soldiers?  Your poor judgment in this matter explains your failure in others.”

 

Row upon row of elven nobility stretches between them.  The few Sindar who followed the King out of the West are nearest.  Their silver robes and gray-blue eyes shroud them in a celestial mist of beauty unreached by the Silvan courtiers who sit beside, garbed in more earthy greens and browns. 

 

Tauriel—wearing her best gown of forest green and nervously adjusting a borrowed bronze circlet—is down near the foot of the long table, seated with the head gardener, invited as his guest.  But Tauriel’s ears serve her well.  Even at such a distance, she can hear the precise quality of the King’s irritation. 

 

Even at such a distance, it makes her quail. 

 

The rumors of the spiders’ permanent nests near the forest road filtered into the palace just yesterday.  Tauriel, busily tending the _athelas_ in the lower herb garden, heard every word that passed between two whispering guardsmen.

 

It seems that Tauriel’s world is expanding even as Mirkwood itself seems to shrink.  Her studies progress.  At the young age of seventy-five, she now commands the lowest garden, responsible for the root vegetables that that supply the King’s own table.  It is an unheard-of honor for a child her age, and she tries to be worthy of it.

 

But she is still curious about the world outside, the world that used to be hers. 

 

In bits and pieces, she learns.  Gathering the early apples in the orchard, she sees a wounded elf stagger towards the gate with news of an ambush.  Reading in the library, she listens as the Prince’s tutor explains how the elves were first driven into the northeast corner of the forest. 

 

And now, from the King’s own lips, she hears that he will not attend the desperate need of his Captain.

 

She risks a glance up the table.  Thranduil is brilliant in vermillion; his hair seems bone-white in comparison.  It lies across his tunic in strands as pale and fragile as spider silk.  The red of his robe is a match for the wine that has filled his cup without fail since the start of the feast.  His eyes, however…they are still sharp, keen, and aware.

 

Tauriel stares at her plate, fearful that he might sense her gaze.  She should not look at him, she should not think his name.  She might sit at his table, but she is not of his kind.  Nor will she ever be.

 

The King is speaking again, and his word is stone-carved law. 

 

“At your last request, I gave you fifty from my Palace guard.  If you claim defense is untenable with so many, perhaps there is another who does not think the same.”

 

There is a pause before the Captain murmurs an apologetic response, and he excuses himself shortly thereafter.

 

Tauriel dares one last glance.

 

The King’s goblet is full again.


	4. IV

Tauriel is too often in the shadows to enjoy being the center of attention, but it is her birthday and Thranduil has honored her with a feast of her own. It is a modest affair compared to others she has heard of—they are merely eating haphazardly from a well-stocked sideboard on the lower terrace—but it is more than enough. Too much notice makes her feel her status…and consequent isolation.

While several conversations swirl and she tries to be ready to put in a word, she thinks of how pointless it is for immortal beings to count their ages. Why should one hundred mark the first step along the path to adulthood?

The dwarves for example, who do not live more than six hundred years, do not count anyone younger than two hundred an adult. And elsewhere there are other traditions. Her interest in other races is an oddity, but she likes to think how things are different…beyond the bounds of Mirkwood.

"May I help you to more wine?"

She gulps down the swallow she has, barely avoiding a cough.

"Thank you, my Prince." She addresses the pale hand that grips the pitcher. Legolas may not be the figure of intimidation that his father is, but she is cautious.

"I drink to you tonight," his manner is easy; easy and unafraid. He need not measure his every word for fear of saying too much. "To your life as it has been and as it will be."

He drinks deeply. She follows his lead. It is her third glass of the strong drink and the heavy dizziness growing behind her eyes makes her careless. She studies his face more frankly than she would have dared otherwise.

He meets her gaze with a smile, one of such warmth it seems spun from sunlight. His eyes are the clear blue of pure water.

"I understand that your healing studies are progressing. My friend says you treated his knife wound three days past. There is hardly a mark."

"The cut was shallow," she wrestles down the grin that blooms with his praise, "Any competent healer could have done as much."

"Still," he toasts her with a tip of his glass. "I wonder that my Father did not choose you for the Guard, as he has done so many. You have the right build for an archer."

His eyes assess her thoroughly and Tauriel blushes. "I—it was always my parents' intention that I learn to heal. And my own inclination also."

"Come, my Son," Legolas turns without a start but Tauriel nearly drops her glass, "Not everyone has the skill to be a warrior like yourself."

The Prince laughs and makes some joking reply, but the King's attention is only half on him.

He looks her over as well.

His lip curls; his eyes narrow. She bows, blinking back sudden, unaccountable tears.

She does not look up as they move off together. Tauriel can only breathe when she is alone again.


	5. V

It does not often snow in Mirkwood. This morning is only the second occasion Tauriel can remember, even over a century. Not for nothing was this land once called "Greenwood", for it is blessed with protection from wintery gusts by the sheltering tree canopy above.

So when it does snow, it is a beautiful and treasured sight. Tauriel can barely keep her eyes on her work. Somehow dirt and roots seem less enthralling when the slanting ribbons of afternoon light are flecked with whirling diamond snowflakes, each one as unique as a precious gem.

Not everyone shares her devotion. On the target range below, the steady  _thrum-thwock_  of archery practice has changed to laughter and shouts as a snowball fight rages. If Tauriel peers through the trellis, through the climbing vines, she can see them. Prince Legolas and his compatriots have divided into teams, protecting targets on opposing sides of the field.

Tauriel smiles as she watches him, leaning farther over the ledge than perhaps is wise. Her red hair is a ruby, a flame in the sun. He dances between throws, light as a feather and graceful as a dance.

Then, with a swift  _splat_ , his snowball bursts on the enemy's side.

In the pause between rounds, Legolas—perched atop a target and nursing a cup of spiced wine—looks up and sees her. His wave is casual, but a clear invitation. Tauriel obeys it, and goes down.

She is keenly aware of how she looks. Her knees are filthy, her tunic is smudged. Still, she curtseys to the Prince with all the dignity she commands.

"Will you not join us, friend?"

How can he call her friend? It thrills her, but she would not call them such. She has several friends, all of whom she knows better than the Prince. And even if that did not matter…all of  _his_ friends are standing beside him, noble born youths every one.

She does not belong there.

"I am afraid I would acquit myself poorly."

"How is that?" Legolas brushes aside her objection and tosses her a packed snowball. "Try." There is a look in his eyes that reminds Tauriel of his father, and she senses she is no longer playing a simple game.

She swallows. Tauriel is not unskilled, but as the entire company starts cheering her on, she knows she will miss. With a face glowing nearly as bright as her hair, she turns, aims, and lets fly.

A prayer to Eru wings heavenward at the same moment. She cannot breathe.

With a  _splat_  almost as resonant as the Prince's, her ball explodes atop his. She gasps, wild joy as strong in her as fear had just been. It is an impressive throw, clear across the length of the field.

When she swings back, radiant with success and basking in the acclaim of the crowd, Legolas swings down from the target to clap a hand on her shoulder.

"You see? There is more to you than you believe."


	6. VI

Summer arrives and Mirkwood bursts into bloom.  Green leaves, golden sunlight, flowers in myriad shades of scarlet, ivory, and lapis become the colors of the forest’s ever-changing tapestry.  The entire Palace flees the halls of carven wood to spend the days outdoors, in parties of pleasure. 

 

Tauriel does likewise; harvesting river reeds, hunting mushrooms in crooked tree stumps, or reading in glens carpeted with fresh grass. 

 

As she wanders, always near the safety of the Palace guard in their watchtowers above, she wonders what it would be like if she became one of them.  With combat training, she could journey all the way to Mirkwood’s end.  She could surface from beneath the ocean of trees and stand on the plains bathed in crystalline starlight.   

 

Tauriel shakes her head and banishes the thought.  Her parents…they had encouraged her to heal, not hurt.  She cannot betray their memory.

 

She hears people coming down the road, but there is an edge of panic in their shouts.  So Tauriel runs straight down the hillside, leaping over exposed roots and dodging around tree trunks.

 

It is the King’s party, returned from a picnic.  Tauriel had watched it leave the Palace that morning, each person alive with spirit and good-humor. 

 

Now that has disappeared.  Only fear remains.

 

The King gallops ahead, his white steed lathered and shaking.  His sword is drawn; viscous ooze drips down its length.  The Prince comes next, and riding pillion with him is a young girl.  The Prince’s arm is the only thing keeping her in the saddle.

 

Tauriel sees her pale face, the tracery of black creeping through the veins in her arms.  She knows the signs of spider venom well.

 

“Your Majesty!”

 

He reins in, eyes settling on Tauriel.  “Speak.”

 

“If you bring her down, I can treat her here,” she has no time for niceties.  There is blood seeping from the girl’s nose and mouth. 

 

Thranduil nods to his son and before he finishes the gesture, Legolas has laid the girl at Tauriel’s feet.

 

She has no time to be nervous, no time to take pride in their trust.  From the pouch around her waist she draws herbs; from her flask she pours water.  When the poultice is ready, she massages it into the wound, pressing down on the injured skin to either side of the pincer’s bite. 

 

Words spill from her mouth in a rhythm that echoes from the abundance of nature around them.  The bite closes because the Greenwood wishes it so.  Tauriel is only its servant, only its conduit.  The power is not hers to keep, only to borrow.

 

So she returns it to the earth when the task is done, when the girl’s breathing has evened and her seizures have stopped.

 

Then she steps back and bows to her King.  “Thank you.”

 

He kneels beside the girl and feels her pulse, touches the color that heats her cheeks.  He speaks to her, not to Tauriel.  He does not look up.

 

“It was well done.”


	7. VII

Work in the gardens is a solitary affair.  Tauriel is usually alone with her spade and shovel, stooping up long rows of potatoes and down longer furrows of carrots, plucking weeds and scooping fresh earth over new-sprouted life.  In isolation thus, strange thoughts wander through the restless firmament of her mind.

 

She often wonders about the seed of her nature and how it too will grow.

 

What is she to become?  A healer, a gardener, a scholar, or something else entirely?

 

Healers live with a single pure purpose, much the way a lily’s whole being is expressed in the flawless white star of its bloom.  They are devoted to others, to fixing what has been broken.

 

Tauriel feels right when she makes people whole.  But working only in the face of pain is discomfiting.

 

Gardeners, though.  They are closest to nature, they grow in hearty profusion like violets.  They are humble flowers, but no less lovely than their taller, prouder comrades for their humility.

 

Tauriel can happily spend months being the watchful midwife to plants and herbs as they grow.  Yet she is always glad of summer when the plants thrive and she is free to wander and roam.

 

Could she be a scholar?  Many nights she spends in the library, going from volume to volume as she seeks to expand her horizons beyond the limit of what she knows, of what those around her know.  Yet in her heart she knows she has not the dedication of a born scholar, who must climb ever upwards—like ivy—in her search for truth.

 

Tauriel is one hundred and eighteen, but still has little knowledge of herself.  She enjoys many things, but the singular passion of her life has yet to reveal itself. 

 

One possibility remains in her mind, no matter how she thinks on her parents’ unspoken objections.    But this possibility hinges on the question: can she harden herself enough to become a warrior? 

 

Elves, though sometimes viewed as weak and yielding by other races, can be poisonous as the holly that shines with the verdant hue of summer even in winter’s icy grip.

 

King Thranduil is perfect evidence of this.  On the sparring field, he fights with a refined, deadly grace.  He can take on a dozen opponents and his clear eyes only narrow with focus as his double swords flash in dazzling patterns between his enemies’ blades.

 

The King is thousands of years her senior.  He knows the truth of his nature.  His is to be the ruthless sword that holds the line inviolate between his people and the dangers of the world beyond.

 

Is she strong enough for that? 

 

The King…ruthless is a strong word, but it is right.  He has fought and fought again, and his battles have turned him hard and cold as the white gems he prizes.

 

So Tauriel wonders as she weeds: 

 

Can she not be both warrior and healer, both sword and shield?  Or are they diverging pathways in the wood?


	8. VIII

"Years ago, this village was the site of an unprovoked massacre."

Eighty-six years ago to the day, Tauriel's childhood had ended in an hour's worth of pain and terror.

"The spiders claimed the lives of more than sixty of our people."

Normally on this anniversary, she arranges flowers and autumn leaves in her mother's wooden vase, humming one of her father's songs as she does so. She prays peace for their souls, roaming free in the halls of Mandos. She considers what they would think of her life; whether they would approve the choices she has made.

"Today, we exact our vengeance. Today, we plant new life atop the death and destruction those vile creatures left behind."

The anniversary of their deaths is Tauriel's chance to keep account of her life. It is a precious day to her, one she guards jealously and keeps sacred. So what strange coincidence it is that Tauriel is back in her village on the same day it had been destroyed?

"The battle was hard-fought and well-won."

It is rare for the Guard to bring along a healer on a sortie, but this raid was too dangerous to do otherwise. And it was a wise choice. In the aftermath of the battle, Tauriel has several poison stings to treat, a broken leg to set, and many cuts and bruises to bind.

"As this battle has been won, so will many others! We will reclaim our land from these enemies of light!"

The elf under Tauriel's care cheers with the rest of his party, though he winces the next moment from the pain of his torn shoulder. She hushes him gently, but the King's words have stirred her too. She finishes tying the bandage with a swift double knot and gives the soldier a dose of poppy tincture for the pain.

With everyone else focused on where the King stands, radiant as a star at midday in full silver armor, she turns away unseen.

As she wanders past the ruins of houses and the dry fountain choked with leaves, the years fall away and she sees the faces of her old neighbors; she hears their voices. But the stench of arachnid blood and viscera is rank in the air, like a fetid swamp. It spoils her imagination and the gulf yawns again between her present and her past.

Tauriel stops. This is not what she wants to see; this is not how she chooses to remember her life that was. She cannot go forward, nor does she want to return to the party behind.

She wants to gather her flowers and sit quietly, communing with the souls of the departed.

There is no quiet to be had, but Tauriel does her best. A glass of wine is forced on her and she stands in the shadow of the tent and sips it rather than mingle with the raucous crowd. To all assembled, today is an unadulterated victory.

Hers is the only joy tainted by bitter recollections.


	9. IX

When the sunlight drips from the leaves above and shadows swell between the trees, Tauriel slips away and follows the path she knows so well. The front door of her house has fallen in, rotted from years of neglect. The windows are scabbed over by a crust of tough webbing; her knife cannot saw through it.

So she peers through the strands and swallows hard as the sight of her small bowl and spoon placed between her parents' larger dishes brings everything back before her.

They had been eating corn cakes and fruit. She can remember her mother laughing as she dribbled honey over Tauriel's dish; her father had leaned over and stolen some on the tip of his finger.

In the quiet of night, the susurrus of whispering leaves become her parents' voices.

But it is an illusion. They are dead.

A long, low cry breaks from between Tauriel's lips and she crouches underneath the window, hands plucking at the splintering wooden planks. What is she reaching for? Anything that house once held for her—love, comfort, family—is gone, and has been for years.

There is no regaining what she has lost.

"Soldier."

She cannot cry in front of him. Not again. Tauriel was weak when she was a child, but she has grown strong and tough as a nut since then. She will not cry in front of him.

"Your Majesty," she stands, bows. It is easier to focus on the tips of his black leather boots—stained with mud and darker things—than his pale face and eyes. "I am no soldier."

"No, you are not," he agrees. The edge of his cloak flutters as he turns to look out over the rest of the village. Tauriel looks with him.

It is a melancholy, disheartening sight. The bodies of many spiders lie curled where they fell before sharp swords, but what is their reward? No house here is fit for habitation; the gardens are grown over and the ground is fouled.

And only danger lies in the trees ahead. From here to the edge of the forest is spider territory. Many a battle like this one will be needed before peace once more sits in splendor in the Greenwood.

As she stands behind her King and considers the ruin and waste, it bursts upon Tauriel with the swiftness of rising dawn that she finally knows her mind.

"With your permission, your Majesty," she begins, slowly, speaking to his unmoving back, "I may one day become one."

If she is to be one of the Guard—who must stand stolid in the face of goblins and other horrors—she knows she must be fearless before King Thranduil. She breathes deep and stands straight and tall, shoulders thrown back and chin high. Her heart beats quick and light, like the flutter of a hummingbird's wings.

He does not face her. But she sees his long nose and heavy brow in profile as he nods, once.

"We shall see."


	10. X

Tauriel has never feared failure. Her goals have always been modest, her skills more than adequate. Besides, growing vegetables and grinding herbs require little native talent, nor are there serious consequences should she fail to do either.

During the few months that follow her conversation with the King, Tauriel seems to live no differently than before. She weeds the garden beds, she prunes hedges. She delivers tender buds and fresh herbs to the healing houses and watches attentively as they are worked into different remedies and poultices.

To most of the Palace, those who see Tauriel as simply a figure in the background of the glorious comings and goings of the King and his Court, her life is calm as a still pond.

That undisturbed surface gives no hint of the raging currents underneath.

Her arm aches as she pulls the string back, but in the struggle for a smooth draw her hand trembles and she loses sight of the target. Even had she taken an arrow, her aim would have gone wide. She strangles a curse as it screams up her throat, straightens her shoulders, and tries again.

Tauriel holds the pull this time, breathing as evenly as she can manage while she counts to ten. She can no longer feel the muscles in her upper arm, but the string feels like a line of fire against her raw fingers.

The sharp _thrum_ of release vibrates like a bell in the quiet morning air.

Sensation returns to her arm in a burning rush. Tauriel cradles the bow in the crook of her arm and reaches around to massage the sore muscles. Even after months of practice, she is still too weak to last the two hours of practice she assigns herself each morning.

It is difficult to become a novice once more. When her arms fail and her body hurts…her mind also questions. Can she do this?

"I can do this," her words are flat and unmusical, roughened from anger and exhaustion, "I _must_ do this."

The words ground her, steady her. Ignoring the pain as she draws is impossible, so she lets it become part of her, not an enemy to fight.

She holds the form.

The _thrum_ of release is deeper this time. Tauriel feels it shiver through her skin. Her sigh of relief is almost as deep and resonant.

"You should not hold your breath as you draw," Legolas leans his stack of bows against the wall around the field. "Your breath must never falter, or so will your aim."

Tauriel bows in acknowledgement, thankful that the pale light before dawn masks her flush of irritation at being so surprised.

"Why do you not join us? My Father told us to expect you."

"The King is very kind," is all she can say.

"He favors you," Legolas sees through her evasion, "He believes you can succeed."

Tauriel smiles, but it is a hard-edged thing.

"I wish never to disappoint the King. I will join you tomorrow."


	11. XI

Tauriel breaks through the branches above her and the fierce sunlight strikes her like a blow. Air—invigorating as mountain water—chills the sweat on her face and flows down her throat. She drinks it greedily, smiling all the while.

Was there anything in the world to match this sharp, pointed pleasure?

She balances on a branch no thicker than her wrist, spreading her weight between feet and fingers, the way Legolas taught her to do on their first climb. Butterflies blue as the sky above flit away from her grasping fingers; she feels their wings flutter against her skin and stifles a chuckle.

After all, she _is_ being hunted.

It is almost impossible to hear a Mirkwood elf unless he wants to be heard. But Tauriel has sharper ears than most, and she knows exactly which path Legolas prefers to take up this tree. It is her path…or it was until the Prince demanded to know how she always managed to beat him at treetop races.

It gives her pleasure—an inward, silent pleasure—to know there is a secret between them.

And because of this, she knows he will come. Already she hears his boots scuffling at the difficult juncture of two branches.

She could run. The branches here are delicate and treacherous, bending under her weight and constantly shifting with the furious breeze, but she can dance across them and duck beneath once again. She has confounded her seekers thus before.

But it is with another, stronger pleasure that she keeps still and waits.

His strong fingers catch her ankle and use it as a handhold. He lands in a crouch before her, not wavering even as the wind catches him and whips his hair and tunic into frenzy.

Tauriel smiles.

He does too. "You should not make it so easy."

"You have been tracking me since midmorning," she counters, nodding to where the setting sun set the horizon aflame. "I thought the hunt had gone long enough."

His smile grows wider. "If experienced members of the Guard cannot find a recruit after a day's search, they ought to seek through the night."

"But I did not wish to run so long."

"Not even to see the stars?"

"Not even then," she says, though both of them know how she loves a midnight climb to see them wheel a dance across a cloudless sky. "I must be rested for the inspection."

"And your induction."

"That is not certain."

It is not. The King is the only one who can approve her appointment among his elite warriors.

"It is. Do you think he has not seen your progress?"

She laughs, but it is a sound without mirth. "Seen and said nothing. A statue is easier to comprehend than our King."

His touch on her wrist leaves no deeper impression than a butterfly's wing.

"You are not the only one to feel thus."

Tauriel flinches. Her mouth is dry and she has no words.

"Come. The hunt is over."


	12. XII

Tauriel cheers her last two comrades, circling each other warily on the sparring field. The bruise that burns between her shoulder blades stings viciously, but it cannot quell her grin.

Of the twenty-five candidates in the melee, she was one of the last standing.

The exultation of being certain of joining the Guard after over fifty years of grueling work fills her with buoyant joy. She might float upwards, a soaring bird, at any moment.

The ongoing fight grounds her. The speed and skill of the combatants is gripping, and both she and the crowd hang on every thrust and feint.

Finally, Glinis—her braid a golden crown on her brow—darts to the left before dropping underneath Annuneth's guard.

Annuneth groans at the jab to her ribs, and the fight is finished.

Grinning with bared teeth, Glinis raises her sword in salute before bowing low before those who stand applauding.

At the King's raised hand, Tauriel and all the rest fall silent. He looks long at all the candidates who stand beside her; she feels his calculating gaze like a weight on her shoulders.

"Those who join the Palace Guard are the most elite of our warriors. All who fought here today are brave and noble."

A ripple of approval echoes his praise.

"For her victory today, Glinis will be the lieutenant commanding this regiment. Annuneth will serve as her second."

More applause. Glinis smiles and salutes once more, clapping her opponent on the shoulder.

"Now it lies with me to choose their companions."

Names flow past her, around her. There is movement in the initiates as they part to make way for the chosen few to join the lieutenant at the base of the King's platform.

Tauriel is the fifth chosen.

She bows under the raucous noise of the assembly, the pressure of it like standing underneath a thundering waterfall. She grins at the ground, unable to look at the faces above that blur one into the other.

In some small way, this outpouring of approbation washes her clean of the fear and doubt that sullies her after years of grueling effort.

Her skill honors Mirkwood. It honors those who have come before.

But there is still a cloud over her joy.

King Thranduil is for all his people. Tauriel knows this. She knows she is being selfish, even as her eyes seek after his.

There is one thing she must know, something that only he can tell her.

Has she honored _him_?

Her impudence is rewarded. He pauses as he speaks. He looks at her; only at her.

There is one precious heartbeat of silent communion between them.

He does not smile. Indeed, he does not look at her again. His schooled, carefully benevolent gaze always passes just above her as he glances up and down the line of his newest initiates.

It does not matter. She knows—and she _will_ know during every trial and every despair for the rest of her life—that she has.


End file.
